Pajama Day
by beckywiththecupoftea
Summary: A collection of Turnadette one-shots, mostly fluffy.


**A/N: Some Turnadette fluff based off these prompts:** **post/145803697402/dialogue-prompts** **. Enjoy!**

 _ **"**_ _ **I vote today to be a pajama day."**_ Patrick announced over breakfast.

Shelagh paused at the sink, her hands covered in soapy water, and turned to raise an eyebrow at her grinning husband. He had a day off today, finally, and Tim and Angela had already presented her with a list (complete with illustrations) of all the activities they wished to do with their father this weekend. Despite 'a trip to China' and 'flying to the moon' being present, a pajama day had not been on the list. But then Shelagh remembered how comfortable Patrick's shirt was (which she had taken to wearing at nights), and she dried off her hands before shaking her hair loose from the tight hairdo she had already put in place.

A pajama day sounded like a great idea.

 ** _"_** ** _I thought I lost you"_**

On reflection, Patrick realised, it was a strange thing to say to a woman whose name he didn't even know. Watching her in the mirror now as he drove, so small and fragile curled up in his coat, he realised he barely even knew this person he was so in love with.

And yet, back on that misty road, looking down into her beautiful, wonderful face, he wouldn't have said anything different. For he had lost her, in a way. She was no longer the Sister Bernadette he had fallen in love with. She was someone new.

She was Shelagh.

 _ **"**_ _ **You are ridiculously comfortable…"**_ Shelagh murmured sleepily

Patrick laughed, stroking his wife's hair as she leant against his shoulder. "I'm glad to hear that darling."

She was still in her uniform, bare feet tucked up on the couch and her hair unravelling from its neat style. She clutched a massive mug of tea in her hands, and her glasses kept on sliding off her nose and into Patrick's lap.

He had never loved her more.

 ** _"_** ** _Do you want me to leave?"_**

She looked up at the sound of his words, her face red and streaked with tears and her eyes wide. Patrick had stayed late at the office, trying and trying to understand the Thalidomide crisis. He had sent Shelagh home when he had caught her dozing on a folder of papers, and fully expected her to be asleep when he finally arrived home.

But instead, she was quietly sobbing, kneeling on the floor of their bedroom. Sister Evangelina. Patrick understood, realised that it was his crisis which had left her unable to grieve earlier for someone who she loved dearly. He assumed therefore she would want to be alone.

But, as she opened her arms for him to hold her and grieve with her, he realised he was wrong.

 _ **"**_ _ **Don't give me that look! It wasn't my fault!"**_ he said defensively.

Meanwhile, Shelagh gazed at the mess that had formerly been the kitchen. There were carrot peelings on the floor, tomato stains on the wall, biscuit crumbs on all of the chairs… This was why she barely ever left Patrick alone to cook. She wondered how on earth Tim had survived with just Patrick to provide food for him, and then tried to figure out from the chaos what on earth he had been trying to make. What she didn't need to be a detective to figure out was that the evening had ended with the purchase of fish and chips.

"Oh, really?" she teased, pretending to be cross and walking over to him. "Then whose fault was it?"

Patrick grinned sheepishly, knowing she could see through his fib. She laughed, kissing his forehead and setting down her work bag.

She could laugh at the mess. After all, he would be clearing up.

 ** _"_** ** _I'm going to take care of you, okay?"_**

Shelagh blew her nose, and rolled her eyes up at her husband from her position on the couch.

"Patrick, darling, it's just a cold and you have other patients who need you."

Patrick looked rather affronted at the mere idea that his services were not needed, brushing Shelagh's tangled hair off her forehead and adjusting her pillows.

"You need me."

Shelagh opened her mouth to retort, but ended up sneezing instead, before bursting into fits of giggles as Patrick practically threw the box of tissues at her.

There was no way he was going to work today.

 _ **"**_ _ **W- What are you doing?"**_ Shelagh whispered.

It was 1am, and she watched, bleary from sleep, as her husband ransacked a chest of drawers in their living room, pieces of paper falling around him in frenzy. Slowly, she bent down to pick a discarded document, her loose hair tumbling her face as she did so. It was medical records from a month ago.

"Patrick?" she whispered again.

He turned, his hair a mess. "I suddenly remembered…I thought there was something in here…Ruby Cottingham…"

He trailed off, going back to his frenzied search until Shelagh gently placed her hands over his.

"Oh, Patrick…" she murmured, gently guiding him towards their bedroom, rubbing her thumb gently over the palm of his hand. She closed the living room door behind her softly. She would clear it up in the morning.

 _ **"**_ _ **Are you wearing my shirt?"**_

Shelagh flushed, and pulled it closer around her. It totally enveloped her, her small frame lost in the folds. Patrick thought she looked adorable.

"It reminds me… Of that night."

He didn't have to ask which night she was talking about. Instead he simply grinned, and put his arms around her, rubbing gentle circles on her back.

He was the luckiest man in the world.


End file.
